Christian considered how he could convey money to Amadeus Voss without humiliating him. Since it was agreed that they travel together, it was necessary for Voss to have the proper outfit; and he possessed nothing but what he had on.
Amadeus Voss understood the situation. The social abyss yawned between them. Both men gazed helplessly into it, one on each shore.
In his own heart Voss mocked at the other’s weakness, and at the same time loved him for his noble shame—loved him with that emotional self that had been humiliated, estranged from the world, stamped on and affronted from his youth on. He shuddered at the prospect of sitting in the forester’s house again with perished hopes and empty hands, and letting his soul bleed to death from the wounds of unattainable lures. He brooded, regarding Christian almost with hatred. What will he do? How will he conquer the difficulty?
Time passed. The matter was urgent.
On the last afternoon Christian said: “The hours crawl. Let us play cards.” He took a pack of French cards from a drawer.
“I haven’t touched a card in my life,” Voss said.
“That doesn’t matter,” Christian replied. “All you need do is to tell red from black. I’ll keep the bank. Bet on a colour. If you’ve bet on red and I turn up red, you’ve won. How much will you risk? Let us start with one taler.”
“Very well, here it is,” said Voss, and put the silver coin on the table. Christian shuffled the cards and drew one. It was red.
“Risk your two talers now,” Christian advised. “Novices have luck.”
Voss won the two talers. The betting continued. Once or twice he lost. But finally he had won thirty talers.